Picture Sky rollin'

Last month Skydog turned 12. And although she's not the high-flying, Frisbee-catching, ankle biter she once was, she is living proof that having four functional legs is just a state of mind.

Watch the video here.

Conquering Cognac

After spending the last two years sampling Scotland’s finest spirits for our annual man-trip, this year we dusted off our berets and set out for the south of France.

Despite Rick Steves’ warning,* we chose Bordeaux as our base camp for exploring three different cognac distilleries (in one day) and the adorable St. Emilion, whose vineyards date back to the second century.

Before we arrived, most of us didn’t know anything about cognac, which, like champagne, is named for the region from which it comes. (The same spirit produced just outside this area is called brandy; champagne produced outside of the Champagne region is still called champagne.)

We discovered that although cognac and whisky are produced in a similar manner (distillation of an alcohol - wine and beer, respectively), the semblance stops there.

As opposed to whisky distilleries, which start with raw materials like malts (some even grow their own), most of the major cognac producers just buy the spirit directly from the farmers and simply age and blend them.

The disparity between the tours themselves was also evident: At the Lagavulin distillery on Isla, we learned about the process from Ewan, who had worked there for 40 years and got his start as a cooper, whereas most of the cognac tour guides were contractors not necessarily employed by the parent company.

The cognac guides definitely knew their stuff, but we still didn’t get an answer for JR’s infamous methanol question, although one did actually come close). And despite the differences, we came away with an appreciation for some booze that was definitely out of our price range.

When we weren’t sipping on the region’s sweet eau de vie (water of life), we passed the time by taking turns choosing tracks from our airbnb host’s extensive vinyl collection, which included everything from Eminem to Bob James (no relation to Rick), and watching Joseph and Jason perform burpies in their underwear to AC/DC – pretty much your standard weekend in the French countryside.

2012: Isla; 2013: Speyside; 2014: Cognac; Next up: the Bourbon Trail?

(*In a rant on the best and worst of Europe, Rick Steves said the following about Bordeaux: “Bordeaux must mean boredom in some ancient language. If I were offered a free trip to that town, I’d stay home and clean the fridge. Connoisseurs visit for the wine, and there’s a wine-tourist information bureau in Bordeaux, which, for a price, will bus you out of town into the more interesting wine country nearby.” Ouch. I think he might have changed his mind had he rolled with us.) 

Celebrating the best of both worlds

Last week I turned 38.

It’s one of those awkward ages where you either have to constantly remind yourself how old you are or do the math when people ask.

(In my experience, it makes you look even older when you have to pause to calculate in the air with your finger).

This year, I decided to combine some Bavarian traditions with some best practices I picked up in Hawaii.

Instead of being fawned over by your friends and family on your birthday, it’s German tradition to host the party yourself and provide everything, to include baking your own cake.

It’s like you’re giving folks a reason to celebrate you and I think it stops just short of actually buying them gifts.

In addition, some Germans actually avoid coming into work on their birthday so they don’t feel obligated to provide refreshments for their co-workers – now that’s commitment.

When we lived in Hawaii, my former boss, Aiko, who, for the record is the hardest working supervisor I’ve had the pleasure of working with, introduced me to the idea of taking “mental health” days.

The idea is to take a pre-emptive “sick” day to relax and get a break from work before you decide to bring in that AK-47.

Mental health days are particularly helpful when used midweek or on, say,  a Thursday, which my birthday just happened to fall this year.

So combining these ideas, I struck out for Bamberg, a sleepy little Franconian town I didn’t even realize was my favorite until I arrived that morning.

With nine breweries in the city center, which is also a UNESCO world heritage site, Bamberg has the medieval charm of Nuremberg with the elegance of Wuerzburg or Dresden.

Bamberg is also famous for its rauchbier, a smoky beer with an almost bacon-y aftertaste (I know).

My plan was simple: bop around Bamberg, provide quality control for its breweries, and catch up on some correspondence at each stop.

For the record, I caught up with at least 6 of you, but you won’t know who you are until next week.

My mental health day culminated with a fantastic sushi dinner with my frau. 

Then, this past weekend, Molly and I hosted a brunch (German style), where I got my brefuss bake on and she made some killer green onion and carrot French toast. We all gorged ourselves and took a leisurely Sunday walk through the woods – even Sky got in on the off-road action.

In all, it made for a weekend more memorable than my age, which I have already forgotten.

Singing in the rain

Molly staggered for a few steps, laughing, before eventually catching her footing. By the time I reached her, the same thing happened to me.

The wind, which was gusting at more than 100 miles per hour, was blowing us over.

Just 30 minutes into our three-day slog through the backcountry of Cairngorms National Park in the Scottish Highlands, we were beginning to think we had bitten off more than we could chew. It didn’t help that our trip coincided with Hurricane Bertha’s visit to the United Kingdom …

The rest of the first day didn’t get any better, but our spirits did.

As the rain continued to fall, we clambered over man-size boulders and scurried around swollen lakes, trying not to let the wind or our 40-pound rucksacks topple us.

The only benefit of the wind was that when the rain finally stopped, we were dry in no time.

After about seven hours, we stopped for the first night in a “bothy,” one of a handful of rudimentary concrete huts where travelers can grab a break from the elements.

A pair of hikers, a younger Lithuanian and a middle-age Czech man, both of whom worked in a casino in Aberdeen, joined us. The rains had washed away a bridge – the only crossing for one of the rivers – forcing them to double back.

At 9 p.m. the fading daylight still lit a third of the hut through the only window. We sat sipping tea, discussing U.S. foreign policy while our wet clothes hung on makeshift lines above us.

When we awoke the next day, the winds had died down, but the rain persisted.

“It’s a bit midgy out here,” said Tim, our guide, as he stepped out of the bothy. The midges – these swarming, biting gnats – were out in force today after taking yesterday off.

Tim was a former IT specialist for almost three decades who started his own hiking business in the last five years. Though he’d been hiking near Cairngorms for more than 20 years, he said he’d never seen the rivers so high.

The area had received so much water that the hiking paths were now mini streams and the streams were rushing rivers. So even when it wasn’t raining our feet were usually submerged in 60 degree water.

Throughout the wet trek we learned that rocks and clumps of grass are your friends, as they both indicate somewhat solid ground.

We wound our way up the valley and made several river crossings where I was sure someone was going to end up in the drink. Perhaps we were too scared to fall. 

The next morning we packed up and resigned ourselves again to the futility of fresh, dry socks. We hiked up the backside of Ben McDui, the UK’s second tallest peak, crossing our fingers that the winds would die down.

An hour later, Tim huddled us up and yelled over the wind, “I don’t think this plan is going to work!” We were already on Plan D, so we skipped to Plan E and kept moving. 

The alternate route added several hours of boggy trekking but ended up being the most scenic of the trip. The last hour we skipped down blocky, rocky stairs, our packs feeling lighter with every step.

Later that night as we unpacked at the hostel, I took out my sunglasses and smiled. They never had a chance.

In addition to the hike, we caught up with old friends: two who were boondoggling at a science conference, another who was balancing adorable twins in Dublin, and a handful of ladies we met four years ago on a yoga retreat in Turkey. The people are still the best part about the UK.

Looking back on our hike from the relative calm of Glasgow, I realized why Scottish people are so friendly and upbeat despite enduring the worst weather in Europe: After you accept your wet, windy fate – it really can only get better after that.

How Molly got her freckle back

The much anticipated Dona beach.

It’s no secret I’m white. And not simply white, but white. A pasty-porcelain-lucent kinda white. Despite this, I was able to survive living in Hawaii for three years without jeopardous pause. In fact, during my tenure, I created a seminal bond with the sun. I thanked her every day for not burning me to a crisp; she gave me a pacifying freckle base as to not stick out so much.  

Don’t get me wrong, I was still white. I came to this realization while full moon surfing in Waikiki. I watched my incandescent leg circling in the water and imagined it looked similar to a mahi mahi swimming in the water.

“Shark food,” I thought.

That was the first and last time I ever went full moon surfing. 

SUPing in the Atlantic

Germany was a ginger-friendly move. For the most part, I’ve been away from my dear friend sun for majority of the past five years. And in that time, I’ve watched my freckles slowly fade away.

Germany is the where freckles go to die.

obligatory surf shot

But if there is one thing Jeremy and I have missed more than our freckles these last five years – it’s surfing. So when our friend Leslauuuugh asked if we wanted to take a surf trip in Lagos, Portugal, Jeremy and I jumped up and down like kids in a candy store and answered with a resounding “Jawohl!”

Our first time in Portugal was a humbling experience. It wasn’t easy – but still an adventure. Despite a rocky start with Goldcar rental car company trying to nickel and dime us upon arrival, this trip was easy like Sunday morning.

For a whole week, Jeremy and I joined Leslauuuugh and our

new friend Mikeguever in embracing the “aina” and soaking up the sun. We surfed, swam, climbed rocks, SUPed, lounged on the beach, and buried ourselves in sand. We ate copious amounts of delicious fish and drank even more Sangria. We became locals at a bar called “Dona” and hiked up a huge hill every night to our home with a view.

sangria!

While our Leslauuuugh turned a pleasant shade of brown during the week, the rest of us freckling-faring souls watched as our skin speckled in the moonlight. We matched freckle against freckle, knowing by the end of the week one of us would be crowned a dotted victory.

There is no doubt Mikeguever won by clear majority of freckle real estate, but I claim a close second as freckles I haven’t seen for years came out of hibernation. At this rate, my childhood dream of all of my freckles banding tougher to create a glistening flawless tan is not too far off.

one happy jerome.

All I need is just a few hundred or so trips back to the Portuguese coast. Easy.

Almost Famous

the buddymollys or molly and the others or molly and the enders or ... 

It might be music that actually brought Jeremy and I together. Exactly one year prior to our wedding date, a random conversation went like this:

Me: I just wrote words to a song, but I don’t have any music yet.

Jeremy: That’s crazy, I just wrote a tune, but don’t have any words yet. Come over tonight, we’ll put them together.

I’ll spare you the details of how that never actually happened, (we made another kind of music that night - wink). In fact, the buddymollys moniker was more about our relationship than an actual band – but we still liked to rock the ukes at random talent shows, camp-outs, bbqs and ski trips.

It was the latter where we picked up Michael Kreis - a fellow uker - to complete our trifecta of mediocrity. (Note: he’s way better than us).

At the advice of a friendly restaurant owner in town, we sent in an audition tape for acceptance into the Weiden Traümt.

The Weiden Traümt is a yearly festival where the pedestrian zone of our little town is overrun with 15 or so musical performances, and even more stalls with food and drink. Stores stay open late and herds of people partake in the hoopla. It's a happening Friday night in downtown Weiden. 

Our band photo and “ukulelenmusik” description managed to make a few advertisement spreads in neighboring German newspapers, as well as the centerfold of the program.

Spaß!

We practiced for a few weeks leading up to the performance, and narrowed down our set to 18 songs, which we then played over and over again during our six-hour gig.

We had three ukes of varying degrees, me on the baritone, Mike on the bass uke and Jerome holding down tradition on his tenor.

We didn’t expect much, but managed to gather quite a crowd. At one point about 100 folks were standing around clapping offbeat to our jam, and two people even asked if we had cds. (We, of course, do not). The lady running the fest said we were one of her favorite acts. She used the word "pleasant" to describe us. Win. 

Now, I’m not being modest when I say we’re not that great. Because, really, we’re not. But we are somewhat of a novelty here in Germany. And we’ll take it because we really have so much fun playing together. 

It also doesn’t hurt that we have our own “Mel” of Flight of the Conchords fame in one Pat Kummerererererer. He is, no doubt, our most dedicated fan. And hearing him cheer “Way to go Molly!” after every song, never gets old. Ever.

Crowd shot with super fan Pat Kummererererer bottom right.  

It was Pat that coined the term “Molly and the Others” which is what we refer to ourselves at times. That also transitioned into “Molly and the Enders” because while the beginning and middle of our songs are just OK, we always end well. Always.

On that same note, our night ended just as well. We had 52 euros in tips lining our uke case as we yelled “Prost!” to random passersby and congratulated each other for managing to pull this night off.

As our glasses clinked together, Pat was in the background yelling “Way to go Molly!”

It never gets old. Ever.

Below are a few musical samplings (mixed with random german conversations) via video from the evening - 1. a bit of Patsy; 2. who doesn't love Elvis, even if sang poorly; 3. for those who aren't sick of Wagon Wheel.

Braving the biergartens once more

(Editor's note: We have some major catching up to do, so we’ll just dive right in and tell it like a Quentin Tarantino movie except without all the gore. Below begins the update in order particular no.)

I have been preparing for this past Saturday for several months. So much so, that the only thing listed on my calendar for the following day was “recover.” 

And for the past four years the premise has always been simple: Cull a handful of the best locales from “Larry Hawthorne’s Beer Drinker’s Guide to Munich,” and stitch together a cohesive route that is easy for people who are becoming progressively more drunk to follow throughout the day.

Pouring some out for our homies who couldn't make it ...

Having learned from past three years, I chose not only the most scenic biergartens, but also grouped them by proximity, and booked a hostel right in the middle. The results slurred for themselves.

but let's not be wasteful, folks. 

In several cases the pictures filmmaker R. Eric Davis captured provided evidence for events that few could recall. A few things are for certain though:

We were entertained and oogled by a barkeep named Baki,
and tried our luck playing homemade bocci.
We sipped and slaked till our hearts’ content,
but spent little time questioning where the day went.
We bounced between buses, S-bahns and trams, but never got lost (well, …)
And Lord Michael Kreis still reigns over Munich from atop the A&O hostel.